


Desperately Waiting

by shipatfirstsight



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOFAS spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mates, post A Court of Frost and Starlight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipatfirstsight/pseuds/shipatfirstsight
Summary: She tries not to think about Lucien





	Desperately Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> So I finished ACOFAS and I still have hope for Elucien so I hope I'm not wrong, basically

The day after Solstice, Elain hands Azriel a note and asks him to get it to Lucien. It’s simple--two words. _Thank you_. It’s all she can bring herself to write, and as soon as Azriel is gone she wants it back. Doesn’t want to give the male who’s mated to her any hope. She doesn’t want him. Can’t want him. But...she writes the note anyway. And once it’s gone, it’s too late, so she tries not to think about it. Pushes the box with the gloves to the back of a drawer.

And thinks about Graysen. How their life would have been together. And wishes...wishes that there was a way to go back.

Still, though, she remembers...remembers Lucien coming back from the Spring Court with a black eye. How she’d felt a pang in her heart at the sight of that wound. How she’d wanted to hurt whoever had hurt him, if only for a moment. And how even that sympathy had felt like a betrayal of the man she loved and what he believed in. Beliefs she’s tried to share, even when she didn’t want to and even when she didn’t agree.

So she tries not to think about Lucien. Ever. And it’s easy, easy to focus on cooking and gardening and Nesta and the new river house, so easy to ignore the things she doesn’t want to think about. Like the power thrumming in her veins that sometimes seems to be begging to come out, the visions and nightmares that plague her still.

And that she apparently has a mate. She refuses to ask anyone what that even means. If she has any choice or say in the matter at all. Even though sometimes, she thinks it might calm her down if she’d just ask about it and know one way or the other. It will make it more real, more permanent, she thinks, if she acknowledges it and asks about it.

And the anger that she feels when she thinks about that day in that throne room...those quiet words that pushed through the haze of shock she hates those words, hates that memory. _You’re my mate_. It hurts to see Lucien when all she can remember when she sees him is the feeling of having her _life_ ripped from her.

But he’s so quick to offer her comfort that she feels...not quite guilt, but sorrow, maybe. That things couldn’t have been different between them. She wonders what would have happened, what she would have felt, if she’d met Lucien first. Before Hybern, before Graysen.  

* * *

 

One day, she’s walking in Velaris when it starts to drizzle and then the skies open and pour rain down. She ducks into the first shop she comes to, and runs straight into him. And his scent hits her so strongly that for a moment, as his arms steady her, she leans into his embrace. She’d missed the scent that was so absolutely his. She feels almost like she’s come home, standing there with him. She pulls away anyway, refusing his offer to walk her home but...she doesn’t feel quite as guilty, she realizes later, alone in her room, as she might have a few months before for her errant thoughts around him. And that makes her feel guilty.

Anyway, she doesn’t know how much is her own feelings and how much is the bond between them.

Still, she dreams of him, and wakes craving the smell of him.

* * *

 

The first time her cycle happens in her new form, Elain is almost positive she is dying, and if she wasn’t dying all she wanted was for someone to come along and finish her off. Feyre had warned her--and Nesta--about how brutal her cycle had been, but Elain hadn’t quite grasped how awful it would actually be.

The pain was--indescribable. Pain that started slowly, radiating out, pulling her from sleep in its intensity. She’d just had time to think, “ _I’m dying_ ,” and then for the reality of what was happening to her to set in when a male was suddenly in her room, panting, scenting the air, and rushing to her.

Lucien. She’d known it was him, even through the rush of pain. She knew his scent. It cuts through even the haze of her pain, her awareness of him.  

“Elain,” he croaks, rough and urgent and worried, “are you alright--” but he stops, and she knows that he _knows,_ and she hates it. Hates the heightened senses that makes him instantly aware that she’s bleeding. She remembers, vaguely, that she told Feyre _talking_ about it was improper, and here she was with a male that could scent it on her. She was surrounded by creatures that could smell it.

_I’m not leaving this bed until this is over_ , she thinks, before groaning with the pain of it all again. _Not that I_ can _leave this bed._

Her lower back aches, the pain a steady, horrible throb, but then Lucien is pushing her, softly, so gently, so she’s on her stomach. And then he’s rubbing her back, his hands warm and _perfect._ The pain doesn’t go away, not totally, but it helps. And she sleeps.

He stays with her through it. They barely talk, but whenever she wakes he’s there with food or a drink or those hands willing to rub some of the pain away. She’s aware that this is the most they’ve ever touched, the longest they’ve spent just the two of them. She doesn’t know where anyone else is, and she can’t bring herself to care.

At the end of it, she offers him a small, tight smile. She wants to call him back when he leaves, wants to take away the flash of hurt she’d seen in his eyes. She’s embarrassed, she wants to explain, embarrassed that he was there for _that_. That he witnessed her like that. She wants to at least thank him. But she doesn’t. Can’t now.

She sinks to the floor by her bed and sobs.

* * *

 

Elain sees him after that, of course, but she never knows what to say to him. And he never seeks her out. She wonders if he wants the mating bond any more than she does, and she shoves back the sting of her own hurt at that thought. _Ridiculous_ , she admonishes herself, _you don’t want it, so why does it matter if he doesn’t want it either?_

He comes and goes from the Velaris as he pleases. Sometimes, she wouldn’t even see him when he came. She would catch the hint of his scent lingering in the air, in the room, and she’d automatically look for him, whether to seek him out or know where he was so she could avoid him, she wasn’t sure.  

But then six months pass and she has her cycle again. He’s there again, no questions this time, no worry. He’s just there, and she’s glad for it. He knows better this time what food makes her nauseous and she finds herself merely turning her back to him in silent demand and plea when she needs him to rub the ache. He does, unfailingly, and without complaint.

When he leaves, she manages a quick, “Thank you,” and he nods before striding off.

She finds herself wishing that the next six months would go by quickly so she could see him again without the complications. Somehow, despite the awkwardness and embarrassment, she’s only comfortable around him in those moments.

She wishes she could feel that way around him normally. But everything is so much more complicated when she doesn’t have the pain to focus on.

One day he’s there, trying so hard _not_ to bother her. He’s there to talk to Feyre he says, but her sister isn’t there. “Well, since I have the time, can I be of any help to you?” he asks, pointing to the gardening tools in her hands and she just loses it. The manners and proprietary ingrained in her, just gone.

She doesn’t even remember most of it afterwards except that she knows she shouts, “I don’t want _you_.”

And those words seem to break something in him. He’d been standing there, taking it, and that had made her more angry, but then he was stalking across the distance between them, stopping just shy of her. “And you think I want you? Want this?” and his voice is so calm, but the rage behind it almost makes her take a step away from him. But she doesn’t, holding her ground as he continues, “I loved-- _love_ \--someone else too. And I never wanted anyone else either. _She_ was supposed to be my mate.”

And then he’s gone. Just gone.

She hadn’t...known.  No, she hadn’t _wanted_ to know. Hadn’t wanted to listen to Feyre any of the times she’s offered to tell her about Lucien. She’s been focused on what she’d lost and….she knew _nothing_ about him.

It feels like she has a million questions, all about whoever he loved. And she… she doesn’t want to ask Feyre or anyone else but Lucien. It feels too personal a thing to ask anyone but him. She wouldn’t want anyone else but herself telling him about her and Graysen. But maybe…for the first time, she _wants_ to talk about it. Someday. She’s still not sure she’s ready for everything, to face it, but now she doesn’t want to ignore it.

In that moment, she almost wishes she had the kind of connection Feyre and Rhysand has. If only to apologize to Lucien. But...she writes him another note instead. Longer this time than the first one she sent to him.

_I’m sorry,_ she writes, _I don’t know what came over me. I hope you can forgive me. Elain_.

Again, she passes the note on to Azriel before she can think better of it, and the shadowsinger takes it without question. This time, she doesn’t regret sending him one. She can’t let it end like that. Even if nothing ever happens between them, she didn’t want to hurt him.

This time Azriel brings a note back to her.

_I’m sorry too,_ it reads, and that’s all that it reads. She looks at Azriel, biting her lip. “Did he say anything?”

“No,” he replies. “Nothing but to ask me to give that to you.”

* * *

 

Elain is alone in the river house when a knock comes at the door. Somehow, she knows it’s him before she pulls it open. And there he was, looking handsome and gorgeous, and tentative at the sight of her.

“Hello,” she manages. She doesn’t know what else to say, how to make it better after that last horrible fight and that short, perfunctory note from him.

He bows his head slightly at her, and she notices that he uses the motion to let his unbound hair cover his one metal eye. “Elain, you look well.”

“I am,” she says with a small smile, letting her hands smooth down the old, dirt stained dress. “I was in the garden.”

“Oh,” and he looks down at her hands, at the absense of the gloves he had gifted her with. He sags a little. Swallows. “Is Rhysand here? I was supposed to speak with him.”

It feels like a dismissal. Like he can’t stand another moment in her presence. “No,” she answers, the smile dropping from her face. “There was a problem. At one of the camps.”

“Ah.” Lucien looks like he’s about to leave, and suddenly she’s so _tired_ of avoiding him.

“He should be back soon, though, I think. You can stay and wait.”

His eyes run assessing over her face, and she tries not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. She beckons him to follow her, leading him to the library. She tells him to wait, then goes to change into a clean dress. When she comes back, he’s sitting before a low table, thumbing a chess piece.

For a moment, just a moment, she allows herself to wonder what those long, elegant fingers would feel like running over her body, but she stops those thoughts before they can go any further, fighting the blush she knows is rising to her cheeks.

“Do you play?” she asks to distract herself from those inappropriate thoughts, motioning towards the piece in his hand.

He looks up at her, one brow raised, almost, _almost_ , playfully. “Do you?”

In response, she takes the seat opposite him, making her first move. They go back and forth for a while, silently. He’s letting her win, she’s almost positive of that, but… she finds herself feeling content, in a way that not even gardening has in a very long time. And yet, she’s knows things need to be said between them. She can’t just let it go.    

“Lucien,” she finally manages to get out, “I really am sorry for what I said last time you were here.” She almost adds that she didn’t mean it, especially that last part...but she doesn’t know _if_ she meant it or not. Months ago, she would have meant it wholeheartedly but now she’s not so sure. So she just continues, “I shouldn’t have said it.”

He waves a hand through the air, “I said things I shouldn’t have too. I let my temper get the best of me. As I said, I’m sorry as well.”

But still, they had hurt each other. And...cauldron, she wants to make it right. Somehow. “I actually need someone to help me move some pants around if the offer is still open?”

His head comes up sharply, russet and metal eye running over her face. Assessing, seeking. So she smiles at him, only a little, but it seems to convince him. “I’d be glad to help,” he says, “If you’re sure you want me to.”

Elain nods, rising. “Let me change into my work dress and then we can go out.”

She feels like...like she’s letting him into her life. Quickly, she goes upstairs to change back into her work dress, then leads him out into her private sanctuary.

“It’s lovely,” he says, taking in everything she’s done, from the plants to the the paths and fountains. And, yes, she realizes, he’d never been in the garden at this new house before. He must have seen it, but that must have just been glimpses from a distance.

“Thank you,” pride infuses her voice. “I want to plant more flowers, but I like it so far.”

“What kinds of flowers?” he asks, turning to look at her now.

“As many as I can get to grow here,” she confesses, “When I was younger, before we lost everything, the garden we had was a riot of color. My mother had plants brought in from as many places she could. I loved the chaotic beauty of it.”

“I can’t wait to see how it all looks,” he says, glancing back at the area around him. She leads him to where she was working before he came, and they set to work.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks, quick and hesitant and sudden after they’d been working side by side for some time, the words rushing together like he wants to get them out before he can think better of it. She almost jumps at the sound of his voice, so startling is it in the quiet. At her nod, he swallows, then states more than asks, “You didn’t like my Solstice gift.”

Elain draws in a quick breath, looking down at her hands, before shaking her head no. “I--they’re beautiful, but--”

“But?” he prompts when she stops, and she finally looks at him.

“I--I liked that my gloves would rip. That my hands can still get hurt from doing the thing that I love. Gardening, it didn’t change by coming here. It’s the only things that’s stayed mostly the same for me and I like that it’s stayed the same.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “I felt you getting hurt every now and then and just wanted...to protect you I suppose, even in that little way. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about what you would want.”

“No,” she rushes out, “Don’t be sorry. I haven’t exactly made it easy for you, for us, to get to know each other. And they _are_ beautiful. Just not the perfect gift for me.” She pauses, thinks, thinks again, and then, “You always have next Solstice to top your gift.”

She’s gratified and confused at how happy it makes her when he lets out a short bark of laughter.

* * *

 

She asks Feyre to invite him for her birthday, and he looks pleased with himself as he hands her a wrapped box. She looks at him questingly, but he just gestures for her to open it. Setting it down on the table, she carefully peels back the wrapping and opens the lid. She can’t help the gasp that spills past her lips, and then the little giggle that makes her bring her a hand to cover her mouth. He looks even more pleased when she looks up at him.

“Thank you,” she whispers, leafing through the box.

“What is it?” Feyre asks from behind her.

“Seeds,” Lucien answers. “I managed to get some from every court and from the continent as well. I don’t know how well they’ll do here, but--”

“They’re not enchanted to grow anywhere?” Elain asks, interrupting him, but she can’t help it. This feels...vital somehow, and she needs to know.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I made sure they weren’t.”

_Oh_ , she thinks, _oh_.

* * *

 She hasn’t told anyone, but she still has visions. They’re different than they were when she as first changed, but they’re still there. Most of the time, she manages to ignore them. But some visions force their way through regardless of what she wants. And this one, she doesn’t even really _see_ it before it’s gone. But she knows, knows what it was. What it means. What it _could_ mean. And she panics, rushing for her sister’s room, yelling for Rhysand. She doesn’t fully appreciate the fact that they’re both dressed, and won’t appreciate that until later.

“I need you to take me to him,” is the most coherent thing she can get to come out. And it’s enough for Rhysand. He grabs her hand, and then they’re there. Outside the manor that was to be her home. She runs to it, through the front door, ignoring Rhysand calling out behind her. “Lucien,” she yells, “ _Lucien_.”

But it’s not Lucien who she finds, who comes strolling out of a parlor, a pretty girl on his arm. That’s Graysen. Elain doesn’t stop to look at him, just rushes past, yelling for Lucien. _Where is he? Where is he? I’m too late too late toolatetoolatetoolate_ and her breaths come shallow as her thoughts grow more and more panicked.

But then he’s there, warm hands grasping her shoulders, firm and gentle all at once. “Elain, what’s wrong?”

“She had a vision,” Rhysand answers when nothing comes from her. She can hear his steps, getting closer, feel the stares of the two other people in the wrong. She can’t focus her thoughts enough to consider them, though.

“Elain,” Lucien murmurs, and he tilts her head up to look at him. “Breathe, dove.”

She nods, taking in a slow, calming breath. “I saw… well, an army, coming here. Humans,” she throws that back a Rhysand before he can ask if it’s a Faerie threat. “They had those ash arrows and they--I couldn’t tell if they would get to you or not.” She doesn’t tell him--them--she saw more than one ending--that she did see them get him and kill him and that something in her had rebelled at the thought of him removed forever from the world.

Lucien nods. “We’ll look into it. We’ll figure it out and do our best to protect against them,” he hesitates, then, “Would you mind going over a plan with me, Rhysand?”

“Not at all,” her sister’s mate says. Elain can feel him looking at her but she can’t tear her eyes from Lucien. “I can bring you back to Velaris and then come back--”

“No,” she cuts in, “I can stay. I might have another vision.”

Elain follows the two males and sits with them as they plan and strategize, and it’s not until hours later, when Lucien leads them to the dining room to eat something before they leave and she sees Graysen sitting at the table that she even realizes that she’d forgotten all about him. And the girl sitting by his side, her hand clutched possessively over his, an iron ring visible on her finger. Elain stiffens at the look Graysen gives the girl. _He never looked at me that way,_ she thinks, before tearing her eyes away and moving mechanically to a seat. Lucien sits beside her, and she ignores the glares both humans send her way.

“Where’s Jurian and Vassa?” she directs her question to Lucien.

He shrugs in answer, “Around somewhere. Sometimes, they prefer to eat in their rooms.”

“Probably when they can’t stand to eat with a faerie any more,” Elain is pretty sure she hears the girl whisper.

Graysen says, more loudly, “I thought our human food not to your taste anyway. I don’t know why any of you are bothering.”

“We’re hungry,” Elain snaps, and proceeds to dig into the food with relish, pretending to enjoy every single bit of it.

“I think we should move the wedding date up, Graysen,” the girl says suddenly. “A month is an awful long time, and I can’t wait to start my life with you.”

Elain flinches slightly at that, and Lucien, Lucien looks at her, concern evident in his eyes. And a hot, burning anger simmers underneath the concern. At her, she wonders, or at Graysen and his fiance? But all she can remember is putting Graysen off over and over again when he’d ask to set a date. She’d wanted to know if Feyre was alive or not at first, and then she’d wanted to find some way to have Feyre at her wedding. She’d known it would be almost impossible, but still, she’d thought she might be able to convince Graysen if she could just explain...a fool’s hope. And then, she’d wanted her father to come back so he could be at the wedding. And the flowers she really wanted wouldn’t be in bloom yet if they got married then...and now...she can’t help but wonder, did she really want to marry him?

The thought guts her. Of course she wanted to marry him, she loved him. But she thinks over all those excuses and more. And wonders.

* * *

 

Her and Rhysand stay at the manor that night. Rhysand and Lucien still have things to discuss it seems, and Elain doesn’t want to leave for fear she’ll have another vision and it will be too late to warn anyone. Graysen and the girl--Lynelle, Elain finally learns--leave and Feyre comes to be with her mate and find out what’s going on. Elain suddenly feels exhausted as Lucien leads her to a room. She just wants to sleep, but she thinks that maybe she should have asked Rhysand or Feyre or even Lucien to take her back to Velaris. She doesn’t want to stay here, in the house that was supposed to be her’s.  But she will. She’s...tired of running. From life, from reality, from the male beside her.

“Good night,” she tells Lucien after he opens the door to a room for her and makes no move to follow behind her.

“Good night, dove,” he returns, hesitating only briefly before raising a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

It feels like it takes her hours to drift to sleep. She tosses and turns, uncomfortable. And she doesn’t get peace even when she does finally sleep. She knows it’s a dream because it’s a memory, and not even her memory at that. She hadn’t told anyone about this either, that sometimes in her sleep she’ll catch glimmers of the past. And this time, she sees Feyre. Feyre hunting on her own. Feyre going over the wall. Feyre getting tortured her body arching in horrible pain and then suddenly she’s dead and Elain knows, knows her sister is gone and she hates that _that_ is what she went through. To see it. Over and over. And then she’s being pushed into the Cauldron to be made and remade and torn apart over and over and over again. Then Nesta’s there with her, and she can _feel_ both her sister’s pain mingled with her own--

Elain is shaken awake. “Elain? Elain?”

“Lucien,” she breathes in relief, flinging herself into his arms. He only hesitates a moment and then his arms wrap around her, holding her, stroking her back, up and down.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, “It was a nightmare, only a nightmare.”

“It was...Feyre. How she died. How she became a Faerie.” And then she’s crying, great sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks and into his soft shirt, and all he holds her a little closer.

“I wish you’d never had to see that,” he says finally. “I was there...I’ll never forget that.”

“It wasn’t just that, though. I kept seeing her, hunting out there alone in the woods. She looked so _small_.”

She pauses, thinking of that. Feyre in her dream small against the trees.

“I should have protected her,” she sobs, and struggles to breathe before saying, more calmly, “I think I thought that if I went out there too, if I admitted we had to, then I’d have to accept that we’d never have our old life again. I wanted to pretend nothing had really changed.”

“You were a child too,” Lucien soothes.

“But I should have protected her, regardless. We all should have protected her. Feyre should have been the one to think nothing was wrong, and instead we let her go out there to take care of us. I just wanted to think that one day, everything would be normal again. That we’d wake up and father would go out and get our life back.”

He doesn’t say anything this time, just continues stroking her back, and she clings to him. And then, a thought hits her, “I’m doing the same thing with--with Graysen.”

Elain feels him stiffen against her at that name, before he relaxes once more. She feels his head move, titling down to look at her, and she rushes to explain before he can ask. “I’m pretending nothing’s changed. That he’ll get over it, or I’ll wake up and be human again, and everything will go back to the way it was and we’ll get married like none of this happened. But it can’t.”

Lucien just keeps holding her. He lets her cry, and she…she feels her anger at him leave. She hadn’t even realized she was angry at him until it’s gone. But...she realizes she’d been blaming him. Like it was his fault that she was changed, his fault they were mates, his fault Graysen didn’t want her anymore.

She falls asleep at some point, and when she wakes, she’s under the blankets. Alone, the bed cold. He must have left hours before. And still, the scent of him lingers.

She finds him in the kitchen, sipping at tea. She smiles at him, accepting the cup he offers to her.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

“No, but thank you. I think I’ll wait to eat until we’re back in Velaris.” Honestly, even the thought of eating human food again takes away any appetite she has.

They stand there together, shoulders nearly touching, and…”Thank you, for last night.”

He nods, “I’m sorry that I keep bursting in on you,” she blushes at the hint of a mention of the times he’s come when she’s on her cycle; they’ve never talked about it before. “But I can feel you more strongly in those moments. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I appreciate it,” she assures him. “Not just last night. You--it helps when you’re there then, too.” Her blush deepens, and she stammers the sentence out, but still, she’s proud of herself for getting it out at all. “And thank you for listening.”

“It’s not a problem. If you ever need someone to talk to, well, if you want it to be me, I’m more than willing to listen.”

“Thank you. And would you maybe tell me about them one day,” she pauses, then clarifies, “the person that you loved?”

She sees him swallow out of the corner of her eye, the way his shoulders tense. “It’s...not easy for me to talk about,” he says. “But maybe one day. If you want to hear it.”

She nods. “I didn’t know,” she confesses, “I still don’t. I didn’t want to ask anyone else.”

Lucien turns his head toward her. “You could have. You still could. Who tells it won’t make much difference.”

Turning her own head to look fully at him, she says, “I think I’d rather hear it from you. When you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” he says, swallowing again. “I’d like to tell you.” Pauses, and she can see the moment he’s made his decision. “The next time in Velaris, if you’re free.”

“I will be,” she promises. “But only if you’re sure.”

* * *

 

When she gets back to Velaris, she worries. Azriel and Rhysand take turns going back and forth, checking on the situation and reporting back to her in turn. She has no more visions about it, even though for once she wants at least one. And then as she’s working in her garden and trying to force a vision, the three males are there, Azriel and Rhysand and Lucien, looking tired and worn, with a gash in his head. But alive.

She barely stops herself from running to him. As it is, she walks faster than her normal pace. She looks for other injuries, seeing none, and breathes a small sigh of relief when she sees the gash in his head knit itself back together. “Alright?” she asks.

He nods. “They came to offer aid to the humans below the wall. They didn’t understand the full situation but we made sure Jurian and Vassa were there. They were able to explain.”

“You were hurt,” she objects, motioning to his head.

“They seemed to want to fight first and talk later until they noticed Jurian,” Rhysand puts in before clapping a hand on Lucien’s shoulder and walking back towards the river house, Azriel beside him.

“Come inside,” Elain says, and he falls into step beside her. She leads him to the library and the chess board. She sits and he follows suit. And then he starts to talk, in a rush, like if he slows down at all he won’t be able to get it out, and tells her about...everything. His life...Jesminda...the Spring Court...Feyre...Under the Mountain. All of it. Right up to that horrible day in Hybern. She doesn’t interrupt, just let’s him talk. At the end, she wants to kill his brothers, his horrible father, and Tamlin, though that isn’t necessarily anything new. She just has new reasons for wanting that high lord dead.

She stretches her hand across the table, taking his hand in hers. Stroking it. He jumps a little at the contact, but he squeezes her hand back. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. It seems so paltry, not anywhere near enough. “Feyre was right. You are a good male.”

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse. “But I’m not. I’ve made so many mistakes. At the very least I should have protected Feyre, helped her better. And Jesminda--”

“Lucien,” she protests, “We all make mistakes. That you know...that you’re so hard on yourself, tells me that she was right.”

She can tell he doesn’t really believe her, and she wants to force the issue, but he asks before she can say anything else. “Can I ask you something?” And she still wants to convince him that he’s good, but she nods. She has time to convince him. He hesitates, though. But finally, “Was it just Graysen that made you angry about us being, being mates? Or was there something else? If you want to tell me.”

“I didn’t want either of us to be...forced to be together,” she admits. “I...I didn’t want to feel...trapped into anything. That cauldron...it took all my choices from me, Lucien. And this just felt like another choice taken from me.”

“Elain,” he whispers, and the sound of it almost breaks her heart. “We don’t _have_ to be together. All I need is to know you’re safe and happy even if that’s not with me.”

“But still, Feyre and Rhysand…”

“Are a very special case. In the past...well, males took females that were their mates and damned the consequences. But Elain,” he moves to take her hand, she sees the motion before he stops himself. “I’ve seen when it does when someone is trapped in a relationship that’s bad for them. My mother, Feyre...I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Especially not you.”

“Doesn’t the bond make us _have_ to be together though?” He’s already shaking his head no halfway through her question.

“No, it’s a...suggestion. Feyre and Rhysand are the ideal, of course, the best case scenario of accepting the bond. Some think it’s just an indicator that any offspring from the union will be particularly strong. And some think it’s because the mated pair are equals for whatever reason. And I feel you, your feelings, but there’s nothing that says we _have_ to be together. My instincts I can control. Some males might not be able to, but I can and will if the result is your happiness.”

“But...but I feel drawn to you too. I crave your scent and I miss you when you’re gone and I worry about you,” she admits miserably. “How am I supposed to know what’s the mating bond and what’s not?” She can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed when she realizes what she said, what she admitted. She needs to know, and she feels ready to know. It helps, though, that he still only looks concerned for her, not pleased or smug at her words.

“The bond doesn’t cause attraction, Elain,” he explains. “That your sister fell in love with her mate and he with her is so rare. The bond is...more primal than that. But I _will_ control that part. I feel driven to keep you safe and that part is harder to control. But I will respect your wishes in this. Tell me what you want and I will try.”

The weight on her chest seems to lift. “I want to get to know you,” she blurts out. “Without any pressure. I just... I want to know you. If that’s what you want.”

“I’d like that,” he says, “as long as you’re sure.”

She nods, smiles, “Let’s go get something to eat.”

* * *

 

Lucien stays in Velaris more after that. They don’t see each other every day when he is there, but they talk now. She feels comfortable speaking to him and it no longer feels like a betrayal to want to. They go out to eat and he helps her with her garden when she asks. And it’s nice. But the longer she spends around him the more she _wants_ , wants him. And it creates a new sense of awkwardness between them.

She dreams of him. Them. In his bed, his mouth on her. Her mouth on him. She’s sure he knows, even though he never says anything to her.

During the day, though, she hopes for simpler things. She looks forward to the time they spend together, their conversations and their comfortable silences.

She brings plants to his apartment when he’s not there. She’d gone once to ask him to come to dinner at the house because Rhysand wanted to talk to him, and it had only taken one glance to see how lifeless his rooms were. So she brings some of her favorite plants, placing them throughout the rooms. And then she asks Feyre to paint her garden, and she brings that too. And then she goes shopping and buys little things for him--a fox figurine that reminds her of him, a chess board, more paintings from other artists, books, blankets, pillows. Brings them all to his place and decorates, melding things she thinks he might like with parts of her.

And then she decides that it might have been a mistake. Maybe he liked the place the way it was. She should have asked, she thinks, and rushes back to his rooms to bring everything back to the house. She’ll ask him when he comes back, she reasons, and if he wants it, she’ll bring everything back again.

She lets herself in, and there he is, standing still in the middle of the room. She stops too. “Lucien, I’m so sorry. I should have asked, but--” but she cuts off when he turns. He’s smiling, though she thinks she sees the remnants of tears on his check and in his one eye.

“Elain, dove, don’t be sorry. You did this for me?” he asks, but doesn’t seem to need the answer. He strides to her and pulls her to him. For a moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her, and she’s ready for his kiss. She craves it. But he just hugs her, tight and warm. After a moment, she hugs him back, just as fiercely.

“You like it?” she mumbles against his shirt.

He laughs. “I _love_ it. I didn’t know what to do with it. You made it a home.”

Elain pulls back slightly, grinning at him widely. She stretches up, brushing a kiss across his cheek. His hands tighten on her waist, and she drops back down, hugging him again.

* * *

 

The Solstice comes again with surprising speed. It’s only when everyone starts decorating that it hits Elain just how quickly time has gone by. How happy she’s been. And how long it’s been since she’d even thought of the man she was going to marry.

She has something she has to do. She goes looking for Rhysand or Feyre, knowing either will help her. She finds Rhysand first.

“Rhys,” she greets, “I need to go to the manor again. Can you take me?”

He doesn’t question her, just takes her hand and brings them to the human lands,

“Wait for me?” she asks. He nods, settling down on the ground.

“Call when you’re ready for me,” he says from behind her.

She finds Graysen thankfully alone. “Graysen,” she says, making him turn almost wildly.

“Elain,” he returns, arms crossing over his chest, chin coming up in challenge. “What do you want then?”

“To say goodbye,” she explains. “We never really got--well, anyway. I just wanted to say that I loved you. And I think we could have possibly been very happy together if not for everything. But I don’t regret what happened anymore.”

“You don’t regret being made into a monster?” he asks, low and sharp. Her own chin comes up in reaction.

“No, I don’t. Because I don’t think I’m a monster, Graysen. I’m still _me_. I still garden and cook, and love my sisters. I know you don’t understand. But I needed to say goodbye to you for me. So I can move on.” Finished, she turns to walk away. And she doesn’t regret that either.

* * *

When she gets back to Velaris, she parts ways with Rhysand and goes looking for a Solstice gift for Lucien. She’s not sure what to get him. She wants it to be special. Personal. Cute. Though for a moment in a little shop full of lacy things, she pictures buying one of those thin nightgowns and giving it to him with a note saying she’ll wear it for him later. But no, she tells herself, leaving the shop in a rush. They haven’t even kissed yet.

She finds presents for everyone else--more books for Nesta, paints for Feyre, carved boxes for Azriel and Cassian, a necklace for Amren, a dress for Mor--but Lucien...she can’t decide.

“It has to be perfect,” she complains to Feyre.

“I think he’ll appreciate anything you get him,” her sister replies, rather unhelpfully.

Elain tells her so. “Suggestions only, please.”

“Elain, honestly, he’s not going to be upset if you don’t get him the perfect gift.”

“I know that, it’s just...I feel like that’s because he doesn’t think he’s worth a good gift. I just want it to be right so he knows…”

And then it hits her. She’d been playing around, a little, with flower breeding, and she’d made a hybrid plant. One had worked rather well, the blooms red and orange, speckled together. He’d seemed to appreciate the plants she’d given him for his apartment. She buys several things she thinks he’d like, just in case--a green scarf, some books he’d said he wanted to read, a new pack since his was falling apart.

When he comes to the house for the gift exchange, she tugs him to a corner. “One of your gifts is in my garden,” she starts, nervously biting her lip. “You can’t have one yet. But I named that flower I was telling you about, the rose I bred, I named it for you. It’ll be the Lucien.”

He looks touched at least when the others call them back over. She wants to talk to him, though, see if it really was a good gift.

This year, Rhysand places two boxes from Lucien in front of her. She looks to the male in question, but he just motions to the smaller box. “Open that one first,” he says.

She does, pulls the paper off neatly. She opens the box and laughs. Ten pairs of gardening gloves rest on top, each lovely, and each, she can tell, free of any enchantment. There’s new shears since hers had rusted. And more seeds, different ones from the last time.

“Thank you,” she says, flashing him a smile.

He nods before pointing to the bigger box. It’s unwrapped, which she hadn’t noticed before, and there’s holes in the sides. She opens the package and finds a baby fox. 

“Oh,” she breathes, picking it up gently. Looking up at Lucien, she strokes the tiny creature.

“Her mother was dead and I found her,” he answers her silent question. “You don’t have to take her if you don’t want to--”

“Not want to? I love her already,” she interrupts, then pats the seat beside her with her free hand. “Come open your present.”

He seems happy with everything she got for him, leaning over to whisper a thank you to her. And then asks, “Have you decided on a name?”

“I was thinking Fawn,” she says, petting the sleeping fox in her lap.

When they get back to Velaris, Elain puts Fawn in her room, the little fox sniggling into her blankets. Lucien waits for her when she gets back to the foyer.

She steps forward, placing her arm through his. “Can I walk you to your place?” she asks, and he nods. They walk through the city, each asking the other if they liked their gifts, and each reassuring the other that they loved all of their presents. When they get to his rooms, he stops, turns to look at her. She takes the keys from his other hand, opening his door and tugging him inside. He looks--stunned. Elain smiles.

“I have one more present for you,” she whispers, hands moving to cup the back of his neck, pulling his head down to hers as she steps closer to him. His hands seem to instinctively settle on the small of her back, holding her closer still. Otherwise, he seems frozen, unable to move. He just watches her. She rises on tip-toe and presses her lips to his.

A small brush, lips over lips. Elain sighs against his lips, a content little sound. And then she presses more firmly, opening her mouth over his and finally, _finally,_ he responds. He tugs her closer somehow as she slides her tongue into his mouth. She’s never done this, never kissed like this, and she can only hope she’s doing it right. She smugly thinks she is when he groans against her mouth. His tongue sweeps against hers, and she moans, twining her fingers into his hair.

And _oh_ , she thinks, _oh oh I could do this forever._ She never wants this to end.

Lucien is the one that pulls his lips from hers, resting their foreheads together. “Elain,” he pauses, swallows, “You don’t have to be with me you know that right? Just because he--Graysen--is married now. You don’t have to be with me.”

She can’t believe he’d even think that. For a moment, she’s hurt that he’d even think that of her...but there’s a vulnerability in his voice that tells her it’s not really about her. It’s...something he thinks about himself, like she couldn’t possibly want him for any other reason. _What has he gone through_ , she thinks, not for the first, and she feels so _angry_ at the people who have hurt him.

“Lucien,” she says, soft and low, waiting until he looks at her. “That’s not why I want to be with you, Lucien. That’s not why I _kissed_ you. I like you. I want to be with you. I don’t love him anymore.”

He turns his head, but not before she sees a tell-tale moisture in his eye. Reaching up, she cups his cheek in her hand, turning him back to face her. Slowly, she leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He leans into her touch, her kiss, and she lingers there before pulling back, “You’ll come to the house tomorrow night for dinner?”

“Yes,” he agrees, and she kisses him full on the mouth once more before telling him goodnight.

* * *

 

She makes sure everyone else is out of the house the next night. And she cooks. For him.

He knocks as usual when he gets there, but she greets him with a kiss this time, pressing into him. “Hello,” he greets with a grin.

She smiles back,”Hi. Let’s eat, I’m hungry.”

Lucien’s eyes widen when they walk in the dining room. She’s not sure if it’s the amount of food on the table, or if it’s because there’s clearly no one else there. Elain had been excitedly nervous, and she’d cooked far, _far_ too much. “I wanted to make your favorites,” she explains.

His head swings in her direction. “You made the food?”

“Yes,” she says with a nod. “For you.” And she knows the significance of this gesture. Of making food for him.

Lucien swallows. “Elain,” he breathes. “Are you sure?”

She nods again, drawing him down for a small, sweet kiss. Drawing back to ask, “If it’s what you want?”

He nods vigorously, throat working. Moisture in his eye, and she can feel tears forming in her own eyes. She reaches behind them, lifting the first thing she comes to, pressing it to his lips. He bites into the little cake, no hesitation, and _trembles_.  

And then she’s pulling him through the house, to her room. Fawn stretches at the sight of them, then settles back into her own bed. Elain pushes him back towards the bed, straddling his hips, pressing kisses over his face. Down his neck. Back up, to the corner of his metal eye, over the scars there. Down, over his cheek. Then, he turns his head, pressing his lips against hers. She melts into it, into him.

“I thought you were hungry?” he asks with a shuddery laugh when she pulls away again, licking under his jaw, chasing the scent of him. And oh she feels bold and improper, and yet it feels so, _so_ right.

“Maybe,” pauses, kisses the pulse in his neck, “maybe I decided to eat you.”

He groans, hands twinning in her hair, pulling her face up so he can kiss her like she’s been kissing him. He starts with her lips, nibbling and sucking at her lower lip, dragging his lips over her burning cheek to her ear, biting at the lobe. She gasps, pressing her hips down, grinding...and feels his answering hardness. She almost draws back at the shock of it, but his lips were moving down the column of her neck, the little nips of his teeth making her want all the more.

Elain drags a hand down his chest. Slowly, tentatively. And settles that hand over the hardness of him. He bucks into her touch, teeth biting into her shoulder. She throws her head back when he starts to suck, and he draws back.

“Elain, Elain, _dove,_ cauldron you’re beautiful,” he cuts himself off, lips finding hers again.

She moves her hands, tugging her dress down to expose her breasts to the air. Takes one of his hands, and places it on a breast. For a moment, he lets his head stay like that, his lips unmoving on hers. Then he cups the weight of her breast in his hand, squeezing gently. Uses his thumb and forefinger to pinch the nipple to hardness. Takes his mouth from her lips, down, down her neck again. The hand still twinned in her hair pulls her head back gently, exposing her neck more fully and moving her chest closer to him. He licks at her other breast, then bites down, making her cry out, one of her hands moving to the back of his head to hold him to her as he sucks.

“How far?” he asks, breathless, against her chest. “How far do you want us to go?”

“I want everything,” she answers, just as breathless. “You?”

“Everything,” he agrees, flipping her so she’s on her back on the bed and he’s standing beside it. For a moment, he just looks down at her, a note of awe in his gaze. She stretches her arms out to him. He comes down, kissing her and kissing her and kissing her. She feels him push the skirt of her dress up, feels his hand slide up her thigh. Feels him push her underwear to one side, one long finger dragging through her wetness.

She whimpers into his mouth.

Bucks her hips up, begging for that finger to slide into her.  

And then it does. Stretching her slightly.

“More,” she gasps against his lips. “Another.”

A low chuckle rumbles through his throat, but he obliges her, pushing another long finger inside of her. He’s gentle, so incredibly gentle. She pulls her mouth from his. Missing the contact already but, “You don’t need to be careful,” she manages to get out. “I’m not--I’m not a virgin.”

She sees questions in his eyes, but no recriminations. She pulls him back to her. Kisses him. “I’ll tell you later,” she promises. “Not now.”

“Not now,” he agrees, pumping his fingers more firmly in and out of her. His thumb, oh his thumb rubs that nub, circling it firmly. He pushes a third finger into her, pumping once, twice, a third time, and then curling just as he presses down on her clit. And she comes with a silent scream. Pleasure unlike any she’s every known racking her body. She bites down on his lip, sucking, as she rides the waves of her pleasure, as he works her through it.

When the pleasure has dulled to slight tremors, she pushes him back, sitting up slightly, lethargically, to strip the dress from her body. He watches her, intent, as she strips off her underthings as well. She reaches for him again, tugging his shirt up and over his head. Lucien steps back, loosening and then dropping his pants to the floor.

Her mouth goes dry at the sight of him. She flashes her gaze to his face, and he smirks slightly at her. Elain huffs a breath out through her nose, but she tugs him down anyway, wrapping her arms around his back, hooking her legs over his hips. He settles his hands on her hips, looking up at her. And then pushes his hips toward her. His cock presses against her, and he’s being gentle again. So she uses her hooked legs to tug him down closer to her, frees a hand from his neck to take him with a hand that trembles only slightly and presses him into her as her hips buck up. He laughs softly.

“Impatient?” he teases.

“ _Yes_ ,” she growls, tugging him closer still. Kissing him. And then he moves, finally. Pulling back, slowly, slowly, slowly, so she feels every inch of him, and then pushing back in quick and hard. He repeats the motion, long, slow drags out of her, quick and deep and hard back in. It drives her _wild,_ bucking up to meet his thrusts again and again, following him when he withdraws from her. Lucien drags a hand down her neck, over her breast, down over the curve of her hip. Through her thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs. He touches her clit again, and she cries out. “ _Lucien_ , oh cauldron, _Lucien_ , more, faster.”

He listens, giving her exactly what she asks for. She comes again, her world collapsing to the feel on him in her, touching her, drawing out her orgasm as he continues to slam into her. And then he stills, comes with a shout.

He holds her afterwards, tucked into him, facing away from him. His hand idly strokes her hip, his lips pressed to her neck. She feels him, his cock stirring against her, and she presses back into him. The hand on her hip pulls her back tighter against him, and she smiles.

* * *

 

Elain moves in with him. She asks, and he agrees almost instantly. It’s nice. She still goes to Feyre’s for the garden...but...she likes it being just her and Lucien.

He’s in the living room waiting for her as she gets dressed. They’re going back to the river house for dinner; she’s excited, and takes longer to get ready because of it. It’s the first time she’ll see everyone since she and Lucien mated. She wants to share it with everyone.

“Button me up?” she asks as she walks into the living room where he waits for her. He comes up behind her, and she trembles slightly at the feel of his hands on her back. He lingers, she knows, taking longer than necessary. She doesn’t mind.

“Mmmm, I’d much rather help you out of that dress than help you into it,” he breathes into her ear. They both stiffen for a moment, but then she softens, leaning back against his chest. She’s so glad the awkwardness between them is going away. That he’s become comfortable enough around her to flirt. That she’s comfortable enough to enjoy it.

She breathes, closes her eyes. “I love you, Lucien.”

She hears his gasp, turns to face him. Cups his cheek. Says it again. “I love you, Lucien. I’m in love with you.”

He leans down, presses his lips against hers. When he pulls away, he tugs her against his chest. “Dove. _Elain_ , my love. How I love you.”

And she feels peace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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